The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other
by I-am-LMR
Summary: A series of plotless stories about Bobby and Alex goofing off after hours. Now playing: Bobby gets in Big Trouble. Again.
1. Squeaky

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Tales**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: If I had artistic control of Criminal Intent, believe me you'd notice. The IQ level would drop significantly, and the perps would suddenly be named things Professor Plum and Mr. Green.

Summary: "Once we got to the veterinary clinic, I realized he hadn't been exaggerating about the wedge of cheese." A writing exercise in absurdity. Rated K. BA friendship only, but with no stupid extra boyfriends or girlfriends around (yes, KateBA, I _**hate **_that, too!).

A.N.: I did not subject my poor, overtaxed Beta to this travesty. Blame only me.

**xXx**

Once we got to the veterinary clinic, I realized he hadn't been exaggerating about the wedge of cheese. Nathan's mouse was not a happy camper, and I counted myself lucky that my partner knew something about the dietary and gastrointestinal health of vermin.

"It's a mouse, Bobby," I had insisted. "I thought it was _supposed _to eat cheese." To his credit, his look managed to be neither condescending nor exasperated as he shook his head and started going on about proper, balanced rodent nutrition and the history of animal dietary inaccuracies in the venue of cartoons. He'd been kind on the way to the vet, reassuring me that Squeaky was going to be just fine and could I please slow down a little thank you.

The nurse at the desk, on the other hand, was less charitable. She had given me a scowl that clearly said I was the most evil being that had ever crawled out from under a rock and should never be left alone with any living thing more complex than a ficus.

But the part that really I'd been dreading came after we sat down in the sterile waiting room in our uncomfortable chairs that felt, even to my admittedly slight frame, like they had been designed for preschoolers. "Is Nathan on vacation?" my partner wondered. My dear, naive, meddling partner who _really _did not need to hear this story.

"No," I said simply, hoping against hope he wouldn't-

"Oh. So why are you taking care of his mouse?"

"Well, it's a little tough to explain. I mean, it's kind of a complicated story," I said, as pointedly as I could manage without being downright rude.

"I'm not doing anything," he offered, obviously thinking he was being friendly.

Great. So he can find all the clues in the world, but he can't take a hint. "Well, the short version is that they have to take care of a cat for the rest of the week."

He jostled his leg. I could tell it was the bored kind of movement and not the impatient or nervous kind by the way he lifted his leg from the toe and didn't swing his heel back and forth. He was feeling... inquisitive. Just what I needed. A curious Detective Goren. Predictably, the next question up was "Why?"

"Our friend's in the hospital, nothing serious." I said the answer as quickly as possible, hoping he would just give it up. _Please, Bobby, your innocent ears don't need to hear this!_ I thought desperately.

"What happened?" he asked. He didn't sound the slightest bit intrusive. Quite the contrary, he seemed concerned. Selfless bastard.

"She slipped." I wondered then why this whole mess couldn't have happened in December when I could have just blamed it on the ice. He was giving me a questioning look, and I knew I was expected to continue. "Bad shoes," was all I was going to volunteer.

"Out dancing?" By then I was wondering how that adorable, if talented little button nose managed to get so far into places it didn't belong. But I couldn't quite contain a tiny snort of laughter at the irony of his question.

"Uh, yeah, actually. Dancing."

"Well, did you at least have fun?" My partner, ladies and gentlemen, always looking for the silver freakin' lining.

"Not really," I responded flatly, not completely sure why I continued to tell him the truth.

"Oh. You didn't meet any nice guys? No prospective Mr. Eameses?" He smiled in what he thought was an encouraging, supportive buddy after your bad date, helps you finish off the pint of rocky road and grouches with you about men kind of way.

"Girls' night in." I knew immediately I shouldn't have said that.

"Girls. In. But dancing?" He shifted. If the waiting room and chairs were uncomfortable for me, I didn't imagine Mr. Jitters would like them too much. No wonder he wanted to keep himself distracted.

"Do you have parrotitis or something?" I wondered, and immediately regretted my waspish tone.

"'Itis' is swelling," he corrected. I rolled my eyes, amused in spite of my exasperation. "I wouldn't think a girls' night in would include uncomfortable shoes."

Damn deductive reasoning. "Stilettos, in this case." _Aw, Jeeze, Alex! Shut up! _

"Still- Why would- Huh?" he managed.

I finally snapped. "_We were playing truth or dare. Her dare was to pole dance in stilettos, she broke her collarbone, Danielle took her cat while she's out and I got stuck with Squeaky!_" I said all at once and none too quietly. The ficus woman stared.

"Uh-huh," he articulated slowly. But apparently he decided not to comment. "So, um." He fidgeted. "What was your dare?"

"If you really believe that I am going to tell you that, Robert Goren, then you're not smart enough to be in Major Case," I said, as flatly as I could manage. He put up his arms in a gesture of _okay, forget I asked_, and the topic was mercifully dropped. I wasn't about to tell him that I'd run around the roof of Danielle's building butt naked singing "The Star Spangled Banner" at the top of my lungs. I could think of only one thing more embarrassing than telling him about my dare.

So it's a good thing he didn't ask what my truth had been.

**xXx**

I'll leave _that _one up to you. But you know what I'm thinking. ;) Please review!


	2. Big Trouble

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Tales**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: Dick Wolf told me, "Yeah _sure _you can have CI." Unfortunately, I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, so I slinked meekly away. Dave Barry just told me to get a life.

A.N.: Sorry if I sludge up the dialog here: I've only watched the episode 28 times, a few times fewer than most of them. If this, um, issue, has ever been raised outside the episode "Bright Boy," and I really have misinterpreted her tone, um... tough noogies.

**Ridiculous Tale Number 2: Big Trouble.**

**xXx**

Dave Barry calls it "Big Trouble." And you can hear the capitals, too. It's when a man says or does something completely boneheaded to the level of "duh" that only a guy can pull off. Okay, so it's usually something a husband gets into with his wife, but I suppose it could happen to partners, too. Besides, we've been accused of being an old married couple. Okay, so to be fair we sometimes act like an old married couple.

Then again, she sometimes acts like she's my sister. _Shudder_. Jerry Springer, here we come.

Whatever our relationship might be, the fact remains that I knew I could, theoretically get into Big Trouble.

That theoretical and doom-filled day had come.

"So what'd they say about yours?" She wondered to me. No, she wondered _at _me, really. A subtle attack.

"I had to go see the school counselor every day for the rest of the year."

She smirked. I knew I shouldn't ask. I knew no good could come from it. But I had to know. "What about you?"

"I was so normal I was automatically made prom queen."

I must have just stared at her like an idiot for a full minute. The wheels in my head were turning, and I found myself at un uncharacteristic lack for words.

Okay. She jokes a lot. And it's hard to know when she's joking. Her voice just gets this flat thing going on and I can't tell if she's making a joke or just a regular off-hand comment. I briefly remembered the time she'd told me to stop it as I was making her hot. Perfectly believable tone to an obviously false statement. That one was easy to decipher. Unfortunately, my poor body registered the sarcasm too late to prevent me from looking up at her so fast I nearly got whiplash. I tried to shake that particular memory.

Okay, to put it shortly, tone of voice wasn't going to help me here.

She didn't _act _like the kind of person who would even want to be prom queen. Unless being prom queen came with a ride in a really hot car. She struck me as the kind of girl who would have boycotted the prom. Or at least shown up in sneakers.

So... I could laugh.

Then again, maybe she _was _prom queen. She'd probably been popular enough. If I laughed, she would think I was thinking that I didn't think she could have been voted prom queen.

So I shouldn't laugh.

But I always laugh at her jokes. If I don't laugh, she'll think I don't find her funny. Which I do. She might be insulted if I don't laugh.

So I should laugh.

But if I did laugh, she could think I didn't think she was pretty enough to be prom queen. Which she was. But maybe it would be better if she didn't think that I thought that she was. She might be offended if she thought that I thought that. But then again, she might be offended if she thought that I didn't think that she was.

I wish I knew what she was thinking.

So laugh or don't laugh, I could easily get into Big Trouble.

I think I'll just sit here and pretend I didn't hear her. That way, she can't be mad. Or worse, hurt.

Yup, I didn't hear a thing.

It's just a good thing she didn't know the kind of dress I thought she might have worn to the prom.

**xXx**

Want more, or do you shudder at the thought?


	3. Up a Creek

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I'm too poor to own CI. I'm too poor to even afford a disclaimer.

**Ridiculous Story Number 3: Masquerade**

xXx

"She's a _WHAT_?!" she yelled at me.

"A kayaker," I responded, shielding my ears. "You know, somebody who rides one of those big lon-"

"I know what a kayaker is, Bobby. I'm just trying to figure out how you make it into a Halloween costume." She raised an eyebrow as if blaming me for Rodgers's oddity _du jour_.

"She's wearing one. A kayak I mean," I explained.

Eames looked at me as if a zombie from the planet Murp had just crash-landed on my head. "How is she doing her autopsies?"

"With difficulty?" I suggested with a shrug. Eames snorted in agreement.

A devilish gleam filled her eyes. I always like that gleam. It usually meant _Oh, goody we get to play a game of let's annoy the suspect into confessing! _

No such luck this time. "I wanna see." Before I could even process the thought, she'd grabbed my arm and dragged me to the elevator.

I looked at her skeptically, waiting till she was facing the elevator doors, lest she misinterpret my gaze. _What the heck is she supposed to _be_, anyway? _It's obviously a costume, no way would she wear that any day other than Halloween. It was matching blue pants and shirt, form fitting but not indecent.

And she was covered in fish. Not fish parts, thankfully; she hadn't made a trip to the local butcher shop. Little paper cutouts of fish. Tropical, mostly. She had a sponge pinned onto her as well, and a small stuffed animal that was either an octopus or a squid. (I would have been able to tell the difference, of course, but stuffies are known for being anatomically incorrect not that kind of anatomically incorrect[well, yeah, that too).

"Bobby, are you okay? Your eyes are all glazed over." At least she looked concerned rather than angry at the fact that I was staring at her.

"Uh, yeah, fine." She looked at me skeptically but thankfully, said nothing. _Why couldn't she just be something simple like I am._

I'm a turtle.

I thought maybe Rodgers would have ditched her costume by now, but when we arrived at the morgue, I saw she was still wearing her marine gear. Upon seeing Eames she snarled, "Bring your partner to come see the sideshow?"

I was about to protest when Eames answered for me. "Yes," she said simply, tying my noose. "'You'll never believe it, Eames. You gotta see this.'"

Rodgers gave me a look that could have killed an _Echiniscus blumi. _"He did, did he?"

"Hey- I- no!" But Eames just gave me a grin. _Ha!_ it said. She's my partner and my best friend and I would do anything for her...

But sometimes I would really like to strangle her.

"Glad my suffering is amusing you, Detectives."

"You chose it," Eames pointed out.

"Thank you for reminding me of my occasional lapse into the land of duh. Fortunately it's a slow day. And what are you supposed to be?"

_Oh, good, I get to find out without asking. _ "Guess," she said dryly. _Damn._

"A jerk in a blue outfit."

Eames, showing the maturity we all love her for, stuck out her tongue. "We could hack up the bodies while you tell us what to do," she offered.

"I've seen what you do with bodies, Detective," she said to me. "I'm this close from expelling you from the morgue as it is."

"Don't blame me," I grumbled. Eames shot me a look.

Rodgers, resigned, turned to us with a look of defeat. "Will you help me get this thing off."

"No," Eames said, already on her way toward her.

"It buckles around my shoulders," Rodgers offered as Eames helped her with the straps. I moved to help, but she stopped me with a glare. "You'll squish me."

I'm not sure I've ever seen anything quite as entertaining as Rodgers trying to get the huge boat up from around her waist, knocking over various medical instruments, turning around, practically flailing and basically just making spectacle of herself.

Imagining the reaction of the two women I feared most, I tried not to laugh.

xXx

Back on the eleventh floor, I sucked it up and put out the question I'd been afraid to ask all day:

"Wait, what exactly are you?"

"I'm a fishtank. Nathan's idea. What did you think I was?"

"That's what I thought," I said quickly. "But I figured you'd probably come to work as something really... I dunno, sarcastic."

She put her hands on her hips. "Let me get this right: You thought my Halloween costume would be _sarcastic_?"

"Well," I said, a touch defensively. "It would be so... you know, you."

She snorted. "Nice of you to notice. Half the time you take me literally. But isn't it obvious?" She gestured at her costume again, sounding somewhat wounded.

"Yeah, yeah," I said none too convincingly. "'Course it is."

She raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Her look said enough.

Well, it's a good thing she didn't ask me what I'd _hoped _she'd come to work as.

**xXx**

Review or I'll write more of these stupid things.


	4. Scoring

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: My cat ate the disclaimer.

**Chapter 4: Scoring**

**xXx**

The image of bowling created by advertising is not entirely flamboyant. Come to think of it, bowling doesn't really advertise much at all, does it? But it was a thought that came randomly to mind when I went to the alley with my partner. I found that had bowling actually advertised, it could never possibly emphasize (nor would it want to) the levels of flamboyancy my partner was throwing into the game.

I thought the highlight of the evening would be taking the poor man to the shoe rental counter and attempting to acquire a size thirteen. Okay, so it was pretty funny to see the woman working there bustling around trying to find an ample pair. I found it equally hysterical that the only pair to be found were a hideous shade of puke green with a bright pink trim. I knew I would get about three weeks of tease-time out of that one. But that was nowhere near the end of it.

We were playing on "Cosmic Bowling" night, which meant the room was dark except for the constant light show and the black light reactive decorations on the walls. I had found myself a nice glow in the dark ball, and was hefting it for a fit when Bobby came over to tease me about my "lightweight" ball.

Well, on one hand, I was glad to see that my partner was starting to let me in a little. Feeling comfortable enough to tease me without thinking I would drop him like a heat-intensive tuber. Relieved to see that he was starting to treat me like a friend. Happy that he thought he could kid around with me without serious recrimination.

On the other hand, I wanted to drop my "lightweight" ball on his foot.

Now Bobby, despite all his far-reaching intellect and complete comprehension of the laws of physics, is one of those bowlers who firmly believes that the only way his ball will reach its desired destination is if he _leans _at it. You know what I mean. He tilts back and forth in an instructive manner, indicating what path the sphere should ultimately take. As a matter of fact, he leans _and _yells. "No, no! Right!" he'll call, as if the ball had little ears growing out those coconut holes.

Good thing they didn't: They would cause the ball to go off course, then my partner would just have to yell _louder_.

See how that works?

No, neither do I. But Bobby swore by it.

"Ea-mes," he'd said, drawing out my name to two syllables. To his credit, he has never before and never since used a condescending tone with me, but here he made an exception. "You have to tilt with the ball so your center of gravity reaches _its _center of gravity so the theta waves can balance out the force of exponential metaphysics and cause the ball to have a shift of axis on the relative sympathetic infrared wavelength-" he couldn't finish as my grin was causing him to nearly burst at the seams with laughter. I punched his shoulder and he faked the kicked puppy look. Usually I hate when he gets that look, but this time it just made me laugh even harder.

I put my forehead in my hand and groaned. "Why did I agree to this?" I intoned mournfully. _I am so glad I agreed to this_, I thought giddily. Yes, I occasionally think giddily. So sue me.

When it was my turn to bowl, I acted as any dignified human bean should act and strode up to the line, swung and released. I stood there, on tenterhooks, yes, but I did stand there, not waver around like a human slinky trying to influence an inanimate object.

I didn't need to, anyway, as I was kicking his butt.

Unfortunately, my partner wasn't paying much attention to my mind-blowing technique. He was distracted by the light show, trying to pinpoint the exact source of every beam. Typical ADD Bobby.

"Are you even paying attention to the fact that I'm mopping the floor with you? Because victory would be so much sweeter if you at least acted annoyed about it." I could have made a joke here about the agony of his feet, but I felt that would have been going overboard.

"All the more reason for me not to pay attention," he quipped.

_Quipping is _my _area of expertise, _I mentally huffed. "Well, you could at least take a look at the scoreboard and mourn your twenty dollars."

"More fun to make you whine about it," he retorted, smirking.

I have a claim on the smirking department, too. In fact, he was really starting to tick me off. "Fine Bobby, look wherever you want to," I grumbled, giving up.

But it's a good thing he didn't know what I was really looking at when he went up to bowl.

xXx

(LMR laughs diabolically at ambiguous innuendo.) Please review!


	5. Death by Pumpkin

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I'm too sexy for this disclaimer. And I just got a terrible song stuck in your head, didn't I?

**Ridiculous Story Number 5: Death by Pumpkin**

**xXx**

Then the hayride got the hell over to Death Valley. Actually, the hayride wagon ended up driving to the hospital. You'll never believe this. It started when some state park yahoos forgot to take down their "Death Valley" Halloween decorations by the first two weeks of November. So there we were on an otherwise picturesque ride, on the wrong side of Halloween, rolling along through vampires, witches, and bats (oh, my.

No, that joke sucked. Scratch that.) Bobby didn't seem to mind. He was acting like a little kid, really. Ooh, a lycanthrope (specifically a loupgarou); cool, a banshee (it's really spelled Bean Sidhe).

"You sound like Nathan," I pointed out playfully. He grinned, which struck me as a little odd. He kind of hated that kid. Bobby associated him with that three month hiatus when I wasn't there and he had to deal with that red-haired Yoko Ono. I take pride in the fact that he, from the gossip I'd picked up, had nearly had a meltdown.

Oh, yeah, I'm that good.

So there we were on the hayride (remember the topic?), the girls of the teenage couples in front of us squealing in fear and delight and royally ticking off the rest of us. At least when the little kids got scared, they had the decency to just start crying and leave the rest of us the heck alone.

To set the record straight lest you start getting those ideas we're so used to hearing about, Bobby and I stayed sitting completely upright in the stupid hay. There was no rolling going on.

Of course, I spent some of the time passing up the Halloween view and enjoying the view right in front of me. Super cute thirty something. Okay, so he was there with his wife, but eye candy is eye candy. I was just hoping Bobby wouldn't notice - he'd tease me for the rest of the year.

But Bobby himself was better company than I ever could have hoped for. Besides grinning like an idiot at every goblin we passed, he took the time to tell me all the mythology behind all of them and the history and origins of the hayride.

The best I can say for it is that they hadn't gotten the Christmas decorations up yet. By early December, I start having visions of strangling sugar plums if they even _think _about dancing in my head.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than we were attacked from the left (Bobby's side, fortunately) by a flying pumpkin.

Yes, that's what I said. The driver apologized profusely for the motion sensored headless horseman apparatus that some evil person had forgotten to disconnect after Halloween. Naturally, since the pumpkin had been sitting there since the thirty-first, it was a little bit... ripe? Past its prime? Beyond its eat-by date? Aw, hell. It was _rotten_. And it hit Mr. Eye Candy right on the back of the head. About five people, all women, rushed to see if he was okay. After they'd cleared off, Bobby took a look and informed Mr. E.C. that he was, in fact, concussed. As his car was on the other side of the woods, the hay wagon itself took him to the hospital.

I told you you'd never believe it.

The hay ride wasn't supposed to last more than an hour, but going over hill and dale to the hospital drew us far into the night. The temperature was dropping rapidly. "Shouldn't you be wearing gloves, Eames?" My partner asked. Always concerned about others, my Bobby. He started to take off his own.

"No thanks, Bobby. No, really, get those back on your own hands," I insisted, shoving the gloves back toward him. I folded my hands under my elbows to hold in the heat, repeatedly assuring him that it was just fine. I finally got him when I pointed out that arguing with a lady wasn't a gentlemanly thing to do. It ranked, in fact, lower than refusing to give up his gloves. I could tell he was seriously torn. Ah, chivalry. I can count on it every time.

Well, it's a good thing he didn't know what I _wanted _to do with my hands.

**xXx**

Muahahahaha! Guesses?


	6. Lizard Memorial

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: Disclaimer? Disclaimer? We don't need no stinkin' disclaimer!

A.N.: No lizards were harmed in the making of this fanfiction.

A.N. 2: People often ask me, LMR how do you come up with these ridiculous stories? Okay, so their exact words are "What is wrong with you, woman?!" But I feel I owe you an explanation. I pick a random sentance out of a book, remove two words, and without knowing the sentence, my evil accomplice comes up with fill-in-the-blank words. The resulting idiocy has to be the first line of the story. You didn't want to know, did you?

**Ridiculous Story Number 6: Lizard Memorial**

**xXx**

"Your best bet here is to leave your stop light with your rosebush," she'd informed him. Eames was telling me about a roomate she'd had in her early days at the academy. The guy had actually ripped off a stop light that had fallen down during a storm. Despite Eames's protestations that stolen government property wasn't appropriate for the apartment of future law enforcement officers, he'd put it on the wall clearly visible from the door. He'd seen such décor in his friend's dorm room (a stop sign, to be precise) and had thought it was "righteous."

I still wasn't seeing the connection. "Rosebush?"

"Yeah, I told him to take it down from the wall and hide it behind my rosebush," she explained, not that that really explained a thing.

I am ashamed to report that the first thought in my wicked, traitorous mind was, _Exactly how long would a rosebush last in Eames's clutches?_

As if reading my mind, she continued, "Not that I could keep that thing alive for more than a nanosecond. He finally agreed to at least keep it out of sight from the door." She sized up my expression. "You don't seem surprised by any of this, Bobby."

I shrugged. "Not surprising - my roommate had a stop sign too." I rocked back on my chair, thinking. "He also had a stuffed iguana."

Eames raised an eyebrow at me. "You mean a stuffed animal?"

"No. Well, technically yes. It was an animal and it was stuffed, but it wasn't a toy. Taxidermy. It was an actual iguana that was stuffed. Most of it, anyway. They had to replace the head." _Eames, _I thought. _This is way too disturbing. You really don't want to hear this story. _

Apparently my partner didn't agree. "Why'd he have one of those? And why'd they replace the head?"

"Long story," I responded simply, hoping she'd let it go.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Humor me."

"Well," I started, trepidation in my voice. "The iguana died."

Eames rolled her eyes at me. "No, Bobby, I thought maybe your roommate stuffed wood chips up a lizard's butt while he was alive."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," I conceded, only slightly annoyed. "It was the kind of iguana you'd find in a pet shop, but this one was out on the highway one day."

I paused, bringing out Eames's impatience. "Okay, I follow. Pet iguana on the highway."

_Eames, why do you even want to know? _"We were driving along the highway and we saw the iguana in the middle of the road, walking through the traffic. Sam, my roommate felt... he felt sorry for it."

"That's nice."

"Well... in this case, maybe not." She furrowed her brow. I think Eames can make that one look more expressive than anyone I know. Usually I like that about her, but this time it just irritated me. "Well, he felt like he had to help it, get him off the road, you know. So he stopped the car and pulled over. Luckily traffic wasn't heavy that day. He got out of the car and walked out into the middle of the road, stopping the few cars that were there. He must have been out there for half an hour trying to catch the thing."

"So he caught it, right?" I was proud to note that Eames was rapt at this point. "I mean, it couldn't have gotten squished by a car if he stuffed it and took it home."

I grinned as I lightly scolded, wagging my finger at her. "Don't interrupt the storyteller, Eames."

"Give me _that _attitude and I'll interrupt the storyteller with a paperclip to his nose," she threatened.

"Fine, fine," I intoned wearily, as if she were breaking me down. "He had almost gotten it to the side of the road when his friend accidentally put the car in reverse..."

"You mean after all that _they _ran over it?" Eames asked incredulously.

I thought back on all the crime scenes we'd explored and all the bodies we'd poked, sniffed, and prodded. Okay, the bodies _I'd _poked, sniffed, and prodded as she reluctantly looked on, occasionally making faces. I tried to imagine exactly how strong that tiny stomach might be. But I saw no way to avoid telling her. Lord knows I'd tried.

"Not exactly. The car kind of startled him, and... And he stepped on the iguana's head.

"He felt so guilty about it he thought it only fitting that he set up a nice tribute on his bookshelf." I shrugged. "That's why he had a stuffed iguana in the room."

"Bobby," she said, feigning overdone patience and waiting for me to respond. I finally gave her a "Yeah" as an encouragement to continue. "That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard."

"You're welcome."

"Fine," she grumbled, reaching into her pocket. "You had the weirdest roommate." Eames grudgingly handed me a five as I plastered a smug expression on my face.

I love winning bets with Eames.

And it's a good thing she didn't know what I now keep in my bedroom.

**xXx**

Any guesses? I thought so. Any K rated guesses? I didn't think so. Please review and guess.


	7. Infinite Fluff

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I don't write Criminal Intent, but it stole from my life: Bobby's mother was on the same medication I am. I am not making this up.

**Ridiculous Story Number 7: Infinite Fluff**

**xXx**

"There's a fluffy subject that we in the field of banking are very reluctant to bring up," he intoned, exasperated. Behind him, I rolled my eyes. While my partner showed more restraint, I could see that he was rolling on the inside. It was the reluctance of the banker to disclose any part of said fluffiness that had us both immensely irritated. Apparently our witness didn't understand the concept of "obstruction."

"We don't care how 'very reluctant' you are, Mr. Barry," I reminded him. "We need to know exactly what happened."

He managed to eventually give us a testimony that was accurate enough to be passable, but elusive enough as to not bring up whatever topic he was so reluctant about. We were both a little grouchy upon leaving the conference room, statement in hand, because honestly, we had been more interested in the fluffiness of the banking industry than in the case.

Okay, so it's wrong to be more interested in fluff than the actual case, but sometimes it just happens.

Reading my mind, Bobby proposed, "Maybe they don't want to discuss bring your dog to work day."

"Or rabbit," I threw out for no particular reason. Bobby raised an eyebrow but said nothing, probably figuring it was one of those "Only Eames could ever possibly understand" kind of things that I was always giving him.

"Maybe it means fluffy in the sense of happy and cute," he offered.

"I've never heard 'fluffy' used that way. What kind of wackos are you hanging out with that would say _that_?"

"Never mind. But it really can mean happy and cute."

"Okay," I conceded. "But what could possibly be happy and cute about a bank?"

"The carpet could be cute?" he tried, grasping at straws.

Ignoring him, I snapped my fingers in triumph. "The popcorn popper! Some banks have popcorn poppers that make fluffy popcorn!"

My partner furrowed his brow. "I always thought bank popcorn was a little lacking in fluffiness."

I sighed, annoyed at his petulance. "But somebody who worked at the bank would insist that they have the fluffiest popcorn in town."

"I don't think that's really a selling point, Eames."

"You're right.

"The toaster is the selling point." I frowned. "But then again, if they wanted to make a selling point of their popcorn, they wouldn't be reluctant to talk about the fluffiness."

"Hm," he agreed. "Maybe there's something fluffy about their security system. They'd be reluctant to talk about that."

"A security system couldn't be fluffy. Not unless their guards are happy and cute, which they very well could be. I've never seen a bank security guard except when there's a big robbery, so I wouldn't be able to judge either off the top of my head." I pondered this for a moment. "Hm, cute security guards. I always did go for men in uniforms."

"Maybe they wear fluffy hats," he offered, ignoring my distraction. "_I'd_ be reluctant to talk about that."

"They wouldn't be very effective at securing anything with fluffy hats on. They wouldn't be able to see."

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe it was a fluffy beanie. That way it wouldn't be in their eyes."

I snorted. "I would pay my life savings to see you wearing a fluffy beanie." He gave me the kicked puppy look for the fifth time during the conversation, which just made me laugh again.

"Or it could be fluffy security dogs," Bobby tried.

"Back to dogs, huh? It could be security rabbits."

"What's with you and rabbits?" he wondered.

"What's with you and dogs?" I countered. "I suppose we could go back to the carpet's being fluffy. But not happy and cute, just fluffy."

"But no one would be reluctant to talk about the carpeting," he pointed out.

Why did my partner always have to be so smart? "Why are we even discussing this, Bobby? I mean, we're actually talking about fluffiness in banks. Why?"

"You started it," he retorted, making me laugh again.

Just then, the erstwhile banker passed us. "Thank you for not making me talk about the stuffiness in the bank. It's a touchy subject with the boss."

"Stuffy?" I asked, incredulous.

Yeah, what'd you think I said?"

This time Bobby did roll his eyes.

But it's a good thing he didn't know what uniform I loved to see most.

xXx

Guesses?


	8. Mike's Misfortune

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: Not mine.

**Ridiculous Story Number 8: Mike's Misfortune**

**xXx**

And of course he ran affluently. He'd gotten more than a dozen sponsors on the force (Bobby and me included), each donating about ten dollars a mile. What Logan didn't know and hopefully never would, was that Bobby and I had extra money riding on the fundraising marathon: Twenty dollars, to be precise. I was the traitor who said he wouldn't finish, and Bobby, in his infinite loyalty, bet that he would. I was already saving up to spoil Nate this Christmas so I could _not _be out a twenty. Okay, so it's evil to send failure rays at poor Mike, but what's a girl to do?

As the thought crossed my mind, Logan crossed _us_, panting, walking with just a touch of a limp, and obviously done with the five mile run even though we were only at the two and a half mile marker. "I had to quit," he said through rasping breaths.

"Yessss! I mean, ohh," I corrected quickly.

"So you're the traitor du jour, huh? How much did you win?" I had the decency to turn just a little red as I told him. I still managed to look smug, however, as I collected, Bobby grumbling in German under his breath, probably because he was uttering things he didn't want to say in front of a lady (as if).

"Auntie needs a new pair of action figures. Thank you, Goren."

"Hey," Logan finally said, dragging our attention away from the twenty. "Anybody even care why I had to quit so soon? Or would you rather brag about your spoils?"

"Well..." I said, deliberating, getting a light punch on the shoulder.

"What my partner means," Bobby said gently. "Is: Yes Logan, we would really like to hear what happened to you and we'll listen to the story on the edge of our proverbial seats."

"Suck up."

"I'll tell you once you quit arguing like an old married couple. Do I have to wait a couple hours?"

"We're listening," I chirped.

"Well," he started. "First of all, there was this guy in front of me who just wasn't up to the task. He was way out of shape, no way he was gonna make it. Well, like I said, he was right in front of me, so when he tripped and fell, I tumbled over, too. Tripped right over the guy."

"So you landed wrong on an ankle or something?" Bobby guessed.

"Will ya' let me finish?" Logan wondered, feining exasperation. Bobby threw his hands up in an apologetic gesture, giving Mike liscense to continue.

"Well, when _I _tumbled over, I tried to catch myself on the nearest thing, which was this really hot ba-" here he stole a glance at me. "This lovely lady to my right, and my hand ended up in... a place it shouldn't have been." I rolled my eyes. "Well, she was thinking along the same lines as you, Eames, because she slapped me. Hard." He rubbed his cheek for show, as if checking to make sure it was still there.

"So you dropped out of the race from a wounded ego?" I tried.

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I'm gonna get it from you, too?"

"Sorry, sorry. Go on."

"Thanks," Logan intoned sarcastically. "Well, after she slapped me, I was so startled that I tripped again and tumbled over into the grass by the side of the road." Heaving a reluctant sigh, he turned around to show us the gigantic grass stain on his butt, at which point Bobby and I burst into gales of laughter. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, turning around.

"So you quit out of embarassment," Bobby wondered.

Logan sighed and put a hand on his hip. "Never mind my partner's rude interruption," I quipped. "Do tell."

"Well, while I was furiously trying to get it off, I bumped into a tree." Here he waited for one of us to pipe up, but when we simply looked at him expectantly, a relieved expression crossed his face and he continued. "And I crashed right into a wasps' nest." He showed us the multiple stings on his arms and hands as we winced."

"Ouch," I said in sympathy.

"Exactly. Well, in all the fuss of running around in agony, I fell over again and got about a hundred yards when, still trying to rub the grass off my behind, I realized that I had dropped my wallet."

"So you stopped to go to the lost and found?" I guessed.

_Glare_. "Sorry! Go on."

"Well, I went back to the tree to find my wallet."

Bobby was rapt. "Did you?"

"Well, yeah. But when I got there, somebody had already picked it up and was heading toward the volunteer table. I told him there was no need as it was my wallet and I was right there, but he wanted proof that it was mine."

"Didn't you have your driver's liscense?" I asked, incredulous.

He shook his head wearily. "I left it in my other wallet. So he's standing there quizzing me on what's in my wallet, and since I can't remember anything, he just became more and more convinced that it wasn't mine. Finally I was able to give him the name on the phone number in the back flap." Here I raised my eyebrow. "So he believed me, and I went to start the race over again, and that's when it happened."

"What?" My partner and I asked simulteaneously.

"Idromywalantrpdovrit," he mumbled, turning red."

"What?" We asked again.

"I dropped my wallet and tripped over it!" he said loud enough for nearby spectators to look our way and wonder, presumably, what kind of pathetic klutz could trip over a wallet.

I wasn't even trying to contain my laughter. Bobby was doing his level best.

Well, it's a good thing he didn't know what I keep in _my _wallet.

**xXx**


	9. Proving a Point

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

Disclaimer: I am thankful that I own Criminal Intent. I am also glad I own a pair of eyeballs I can roll while I say that.

A.N. Thank you so much to everyone who's reading and reviewing! You put a smile on my face! And readers who don't review: I love you, too, but remember it's the reviewers' fault that I crank out so many of these stupid stories so often.

But please don't hurt them.

**Ridiculous Story Number 9: Proving a Point**

**xXx**

We're talking about a painful source of the can. And I do mean painful.

Eames is a tough woman. She's definitely the strongest woman I've ever met. Hell, she's the strongest _person _I've ever met. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. Usually, she doesn't see the point of showing her strength when she doesn't need to. But some ignoramus had had the impudence to call her "just a woman." It took every ounce of restraint I possess to not flatten the guy, but I knew it was something Eames could take care of herself. She would resent my interference; see it as evidence that _I _thought she was weak, too, a damsel in distress.

Sometimes, chivalry can be hazardous to your health.

On the upside, there are few things I love more than watching my partner squash pathetic little dunderheads. She once told a perp she liked to watch her partner squash bugs. Maybe she doesn't know that I love that too. It's the most fun one can have with bugs, anyway.

Although there was that one time with my friend's Madagascar hissing cockroach. He crawled on my hand, and that was pretty fun, too.

But not half as much fun as watching Eames. Watching her squish bugs, I mean. After telling off the little twerp (I believe the words "mentally incapacitated Neanderthal with goat cheese for brains" were involved), the trouble started. Because while the Neanderthal was still within our line of sight, she insisted on picking up a huge box of cans herself.

I should explain. It was time for the annual precinct's food drive for Thanksgiving. Eames and I had just gotten back from the local super-one-stop-buy-everything-here Generic Mart to shop for canned goods, and arrived back at one PP with copious amounts of groceries. We met said Neanderthal on the first floor, by the donations box, a place we didn't go often, hence the fact that the jerk didn't recognize and respect Eames.

It would have made sense if Eames had just strained her arms or back from trying to lift the thing. It would have made sense if she had tumbled right into the nearly empty, waist-high box when the container of beans felt the inexorable tug of gravity and pulled her right in with them. It would have made sense if she had crushed her fingers under the weight of the thing after placing it in the box.

What happened did _not _make sense. She got the container into the donation box without incident. Looking very smug, she realized that she'd missed one can. And that one can was the harbinger of doom.

The label had a little snag. When Eames picked it up, it turned into a big snag and pulled clean off. Hence the papercut. Without thinking, she acted on a completely pointless yet universal impulse: She stuck her finger in her mouth. She removed it instantly and nearly spat, muttering something about nasty lotion. I remembered having gotten a brief whiff of roses the last time she passed me. Lotion would never taste good (just a guess, it's not like I fill my calendar with lotion tastings), and lotion that smelled like roses would probably taste downright nasty. I figured Eames should wash her mouth out, which I suggested to her via pointing out the nearest water fountain.

So she headed that way. But in her haste to get there, she slipped on the tile floor and fell right into the corner of the fountain. Now her mouth tasted like lotion _and _her head hurt. After taking a close look to make sure Eames didn't have a serious injury (while being shoved away and called a "freakin' mother hen" in the tone of voice one might use to say "Nazi"), I backed off and let her restore her dignity by herself.

Apparently feeling insulted by the water fountain, or perhaps just not wanting to taste her own blood, she headed for the restroom instead. Unfortunately, the moment she attempted to _enter _the restroom, some other ill-fated woman decided to _exit _the restroom, once again causing her unnecessary soreness in the approximate vicinity of her head. The woman apologized profusely, and I'm sorry to report that Eames was a little short with her. I won't repeat what she said here.

There are some things one does not say in polite conversation.

When she returned from the bathroom about ten minutes later, she looked even more perturbed than she had when she'd gone in. She was also nursing her wrist, and the front of her clothes looked a little dusty, to say the least. After a bit of coaxing, she confided her story to me.

"The water wouldn't turn on. The taps were both stuck," she informed me as if this explained everything.

"Uh-huh," I said, trying to coax her into more of an explanation.

"Neither tap would move, so finally I got impatient, and..." Eames bit her lip. "I whacked the hot water tap with my wrist. It didn't give, and now I've got a bruise to show for it, too." I considered massaging it, but with the mood Eames was in, I didn't feel like risking choice parts of my anatomy if she misinterpreted the gesture.

I was almost too afraid to ask.

Almost. "Um, Eames? What happened to your clothes?"

She scowled at me. "Count on you to notice everything," she grumbled. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you this part. After I got in there, before I committed aggravated assault on the sink, I decided I should go ahead and use the facilities. There's only one stall in there and it was closed. It was closed, but I could see that there was nobody inside. I mean, it was empty, no feet." She sighed. "So by then I was starting to feel pretty, um, desperate, so I decided..." Eames looked at me mournfully. I thought maybe I should let her off the hook, tell her I didn't need to know the rest if she didn't want to tell me, but curiosity overruled my kinder sensibilities.

"I decided to crawl under the door to get to the toilet," she admitted. "That's why I have a bad taste in my mouth, a sore head, a bruised wrist and messy clothes and I don't think the day could get any worse."

But the Neanderthal, who fortunately hadn't heard any of our last conversation, required only visual stimuli to begin laughing like a madman.

So I flattened him. She gave me a weak smile of appreciation, attempting to dust off her clothes as nonchalantly as possible.

But it's a good thing she didn't know what I _really _thought of her clothes.

**xXx**

Guess, please! I always _love _the guesses I get. Usually they're better than what I have in mind!


	10. The Bad Seeds

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: Your disclaimer is very important to us. Please stay on the line and LMR will tell you she doesn't own it in the order that she was asked.

**Ridiculous Story Number 10: The Bad Seeds**

**xXx**

The apple drummed loudly on the chair of the lawnmower. I should explain.

I was with my partner's family for Thanksgiving. She and I were having another bet. Okay, I know we do that a lot, but it works well for me. I win, I'm happy. She wins, she's happy. She's happy, I don't get stuff thrown at me across the desks. I never get to throw anything at her, because that would be hitting a lady, and that's definitely a no, no.

Lady. Yeah, I know. But if I point that out it's a skittle between the eyes.

Fortunately, I was not her choice target today. After her mom made the apple pie, I made a bet with Eames and her brother to see who could throw the apple cores the furthest. I was more determined than usual with this bet. Brother wins, it's no money or bragging rights, _and _playing dodge the skittles.

"You know, there's an old legend that if you give a man's name to every seed and stick them on your forehead, the last seed to stay stuck is the man you'll marry," I informed them.

"Hey, Bobby, cut the lessons and try not to hit the landscaping equipment."

"Hey, Eames, try to throw the apple core past that first rock two feet awa- Ow! That counts as your turn, you know. Your official distance is from your hand to my shoulder."

"It'll be my _fist _to your shoulder," she grumbled as she picked the core up off the ground. I wiped the apple goo off the leather of my jacket, grinning. She lobbed her apple and hit...

...her sister's head.

For the record, her sister's head was further than the lawnmower. Grr.

"Sorry Danielle!"

"Oh, sure. You apologize to _her_," I grumbled, false annoyance in my voice.

"She didn't deserve it," Eames shot back.

Seth piped up. "Will you two quit flirting and get your apple cores? It's two out of three, remember?" Of course her brother would remember that: His core had fallen short of the lawn mower. Ha!

"We're not flirting, Donkey-head," she said, slamming her fist into her shoulder. "We're acting like partners, and the gossip mill at work that you've been listening to is full of balogna." Here I was relieved that her sick sense of humor hadn't kicked in to make her pretend we were regularly in the throes of passion just to tick Seth off.

Danielle had by now gotten over to us, and had already smacked her sister in the arm. "That is _really _not what I needed today of all days. See how I've changed shirts. From my nice new blouse that I wore for the special occasion?" Eames nodded, confused. "Your spawn spit up all over it." I could tell my partner was trying not to laugh.

"Not only did your progeny spit up on me, he colored all over Daddy's paperwork, so now he has to write up another report about that line of duty shooting Madison was involved in."

"And I'm supposed to be sorry about that... why?" _Little meanie_, I thought at her. Apparently my smirk gave me away, because she shot me a look so caustic I couldn't have been burned worse by H2SO4. "Your egg, your problem."

"And he learned to say "Daddy."

Eames's eyes lit up with pride. "That's wonderful Dannie!"

"Yeah, it would be fantastic, but he never actually says it around Daddy! It's a shame your sire has perfect timing. Perfectly _awful _timing!"

"It'll be all the more special when he gets around to it," Eames insisted.

"And your seed-"

"Is not!" She vehemently replied.

"Ripped out the turkey gizzards and spilled them all over the floor."

Eames's tone changed to concern. "He didn't _eat _any, did he?"

Danielle shook her head and gave her a defiant "No."

"And your hatchling spilled cranberry sauce on his head. The from scratch stuff, not the stuff that keeps the shape of the can."

Now Eames was trying not to laugh. To her credit, she was trying pretty hard.

"Turkey's ready!" Mrs. Eames called from the house. "First one here fights Nathan for the wishbone!"

Well, it's a good thing she didn't know what my wish would be.

xXx

But you know, don't you?

Remember that the only reason I crank these stupid things out is to get reviews. No reviews, no Ridiculous Stories! Happy Thanksgiving everybody!


	11. Big Boy's Toys

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Intent. If I could though, I would get up at four a.m. the Friday after Thanksgiving and fight the mobs for it. Nah, I'll just sleep in and let those other poor schmucks go shopping.

**Ridiculous Story Number 11: Big Boy's Toys**

**xXx**

It wasn't at all the frilly fish we had mentally pictured when we'd gone to the aquarium section. Actually, it was rather ugly. As fish go, anyway.

"Do you like it?" the salesman asked in a tone that suggested there was only one right answer. Bobby and I both quickly informed him it was the most beautiful fish we'd ever seen. It had a bubbly face that was completely off center and warped. It had a misshapen fin and shifty eyes, too.

Ugly fish.

"It's a _Carassius auratus," _Bobby informed me uselessly. It was a goldfish. People often ask me how I can put up with a wacko constantly giving me useless information. First I tell them that I love every minute of it, every ridiculous morsel.

Then I tell them to shut up about my partner.

"I dunno, Bobby. A fish? He's only three. I don't think he'd really care."

"Kids love fish," my partner insisted. "Teaches them responsibility."

"A three year old's biggest responsibility is to not destroy the house. Believe me, that alone is more than he can handle. Besides, Dannie would kill me. You can't buy a pet as a surprise for somebody else's kids. It's just not a good idea."

"Okay, we can go to the toy department."

By this time, my level of bitterness had just jumped off the scale and I was ready to find fault with every suggestion. "Okay, but everything will be made in China. You know what I think of that."

"Eames, I'm going to remind you for the umpteenth time that it was your idea to go shopping on Black Friday." Okay, so he had a point, but he didn't have to come.

Oh, who am I kidding? He's _Bobby _and of course he had to come. "Sorry, Bobby, I shouldn't be snapping at you. It was my idea and it was a stupid one. I don't mean to be a jerk, but I got up at five in the morning and I've only had one cup of coffee with vastly inadequate sucrose content. And I know I can't really use that as an excuse because your morning's been just as rough as mine and I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Besides, I always get up at five." I rolled my eyes. "We can get one of those educational toys, the ones that teach them music and languages and stuff."

I grinned. "I can get him a drum set."

He jumped at the suggestion. "That's a great idea. It'll teach him about music and rhythm. That's great!"

"Actually, I was thinking it would be a great way to get revenge on Mommy and Daddy for the labor pains and swollen ankles." My partner laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I suppose we should go with something that will actually help the little guy learn something. And money is no object. Aunties exist for spoiling."

By the time we got to the educational toy section, it had been nearly picked clean by the mob. We had been safe in the pet department, but in the toy section, all bets were off. We were swarmed in a stampede of Christmas sweatshirts.

But that part didn't even compare to the disaster I was about to get into: Tornado Bobby discovers educational toys.

"Hey, look, Eames! This one has a globe and you touch the different countries-"

"He's too young, Bobby."

"Um, I know that," he admitted sheepishly. I see. He's not just shopping for Nathan. He wants to play. "Let's look at the Fischer Price.

"Hey, this train is soft and squishy and it talks! Listen."

"All aboard!" the toy yelled in a muffled voice.

I scowled. "It's ugly. And it might be right at your maturity level, but I think Nathan's outgrown toys like that. How about those little people in little villages and stuff?"

He reluctantly put the train back on the shelf. "Oh, dolls." We started walking toward the proper aisle and the remaining five toys left on the shelf.

"They're not _dolls_, Bobby," I insisted. "They're play people."

"Yeah, little play people that you move around houses and cars and arrange furniture for, right."

I sighed. "Oh, stop being right all the time! But if you ever let slip to Nathan that they're really just dolls, I will string you up by your ears and put-"

**"Play dough!"** My partner yelled loudly enough to get looks from our fellow mad-grabbers. He sat himself down on the floor and grabbed a package, looked around guiltily and opened a can.

"Bobby, are you nuts?" I hissed. "You can't open play dough in the store!" Robert Goren had finally cracked. And he was already building a passable neon orange replica of the Taj Mahal.

He shrugged. "Well, we're gonna pay for it."

I rolled my eyes so far up I swear I caught a glimpse of my frontal lobe. "Number one, _I _decide what we buy. Number two, I am not giving Nathan pre-opened Play dough!" I tried to keep my voice down while at the same time give friendly smiles to the shoppers around us by way of reassurance that Bobby was not a lunatic.

I wasn't so sure myself.

"Who said anything about Nathan? I want some. You're going to get him something educational, remember?" He was looking at me like I was the one with mental issues.

"If I get you play dough for Christmas will you get up off the floor and help me find something for my nephew?"

He made a false display of consideration, hefted himself up off the floor and stuffed a few cans of play dough into his basket. To his credit, he took the can of dirty Taj Mahal with him.

I grumbled something along the lines of "If I had wanted to shop with a three year old, I would have just brought my nephew."

But I did pay for his stupid play dough.

And it's a good thing he didn't know what I _really _wanted to give him for Christmas.

**xXx**

I know there are no K rated guesses forthcoming. Yeah, I know exactly what every single one of you is thinking.

And you're probably right. ;)


	12. Why I Want to Strangle My Partner

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: Well, I was going out to buy the deed to CI, but while I was on my way, I tripped over a tape measure, and when I went to pick it up, I found a notebook full of Greek, and when I tried to read it, a panda fell on my head... Point is, I never got it.

**Ridiculous Story Number 12: Why I Want to Strangle My Partner... Today**

**xXx**

But it wasn't swooping. "What's the point of having a bird kite if it doesn't swoop?" She asked in a somewhat accusatory tone, as if I were sending extra gravity rays at her stupid kite. "It's supposed to look realistic."

"I'm still trying to figure out why we're flying kites in the beginning of December. Can't you get this out of your system in April and May?"

"Don't be grouchy!" the kettle told me as I stood there feeling extremely black.

"Eames, I'm freezing. Besides, wouldn't you rather fly kites with Nathan?"

"He's visiting his other grandparents this weekend. So I had to settle for you." She tugged the string again, trying in vain to get any bird-like response from the kite.

"Thanks Eames," I muttered in a pretend annoyed grumble.

"It just doesn't move like a bird," she insisted, ignoring my response to her jab.

"How did you get this bird, anyway?" I asked, wondering why kites were on her shopping list. She didn't strike me as the flighty type, so to speak.

Yeah, you're right. I should leave the joking to Eames.

"It's a long story," she said, shrugging.

I frowned in concentration for a moment, remembering the last time she'd told me that, and the subsequent half disturbing, half pleasing images in my mind. I decided to go for it anyway.

"Come on. Tell me."

She tugged again at the kite string, still receiving unsatisfying results. "No," she said simply.

"I told you about the iguana," I grumbled.

"I've told you worse than that," she reminded me. I grinned, and I could see by the look on her face she wished she _hadn't _reminded me. "Urgh. Okay, okay. It all started when I was driving home from the gym. I came across this biker who needed directions."

Something told me I wouldn't be so lucky, but I tried. "So the biker was carrying a kite with him and gave it to you as a thank you for helping him out."

She took a moment away from scowling at her kite to scowl at me. "Who's telling this story, Bobby? And for that matter, who's holding potentially dangerous sporting equipment." I actually snorted at that one. "Okay, well I didn't know what the biker was looking for either, but we came across my neighbor, Sammie. We asked him, and he told the biker the right way to go. So after the biker left, Sammie and I talked for a little while. Turns out his son is visiting from college right now and he's trying to get rid of some of his old stuff while he's here."

"So he had the kite an-"

"Bobby, you wanted to hear the story, let me tell the freakin' story!" I made the most apologetic and supplicating expression I could manage, then gave her a look that practically begged her to continue.

I can lay it on thick when I have to.

"Well, Dan, that's Sammie's son, he offered me this really old hideous red stuffed gorilla. Obviously not stuffed like that poor iguana you told me about. A little stuffie. Well I didn't want to be rude, so I took the stupid gorilla, then headed back to my apartment. When I got there, I didn't know what I was going to do with the dumb thing, but it was a little ripe from being in the garage, so I threw it in the laundry, thinking I had a load of darks ready to start."

Now, I knew that, by the nature of this story, it had to have been a load of whites, but I refrained from saying so seeing as I value my head.

"And I know you've already figured out that it was actually a load of whites, but you're not going to say anything, because you know you would loose some important parts of your anatomy if you interrupt me again while I'm telling you this stupid story that I didn't want to tell you in the first place, may I remind you."

Great, I thought. Now I'm getting chewed out for what I'm thinking.

"But I go ahead and start the wash without looking, so I go back a couple hours later to find an entire load of pink everything. Decency forbids me from telling you what all I had turned pink but you get the idea."

_All too well,_ I thought, annoyed at the imagery she'd put into my head.

"And you know I _hate _pink, so I figured I might as well spend part of my bonus early to get myself some new... um... clothes, and I went to the store hoping to avoid the mad sprawl of post-Thanksgiving stress disordered shoppers. But when I got to the store, I found there was this group of Shriners there, which I really hadn't expected, and they were collecting toys for less fortunate children. I wished I'd brought that stupid gorilla with me, but luck was against me that day. So after shopping for my, uh, clothes, I headed over to the toy aisle, which was not only packed and picked clean, but saturated with obnoxious Christmas music and more obnoxious children. I finally got a toy that I thought was fitting, but then I saw that the side had kind of been mashed in, so I wanted to get another one the same, but by the time I had realized it was busted up, I was halfway to the register, so I had to go back, and naturally all the others were gone by then. So I asked one of the other crazy shoppers where I could find a similar toy. It's too bad you weren't there, because I think she was speaking Chinese. By the time I got something it was almost time for the store to close. That's when I broke my heel.

"And I fell into the display of kites, and they were on sale.

"So I bought one."

My jaw dropped as far as her kite had. I had never yelled at my partner before, but this was too much. "You bought it!? You told me that long ridiculous rambling and completely pointless story when you could have just told me they were on sale!?"

Much to my surprise, Eames was grinning. "Yup. To get even with you for telling me that disgusting iguana story. You deserved it. Besides, I've gotta have some entertainment and my kite just isn't cutting it. The look on your face, on the other hand, is hysterical. Thank you."

"Eames, I am going to strangle you with that kite string." She was still grinning at me.

But it's a good thing she didn't know what, um, _things _I was still thinking about.

**xXx**

Guesses, or does that last line only make sense in my twisted mind? Please review?! Pretty please? Even you folks at amorousintent (you know who you are)?


	13. Ramblings

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I can only disclaim to one person a day. Today is not your day. Tomorrow isn't looking good either. LMR is stealing from overused trite, expressions. _You _try coming up with one of these every day.

**Ridiculous Story Number 13: Ramblings**

**xXx**

"They can ramble all the doorknobs," I suggested in what I hoped was an optimistic tone. I got nothing but a quizzical look for my trouble. "What I mean is they can ramble _with _them."

"Um, Eames?" I could see my partner's reluctance etched across his face. He knows everything, true, but he really doesn't like to point out people's mistakes. He hates pointing out _my _mistakes, especially. He respects me. He values our partnership and friendship. He knows that in the long run, a few simple mistakes don't detract from the fact that I am a wonderful human being.

He fears me.

"Eames? I'm pretty sure doorknobs can't talk," he pointed out gently, trying his best not to sound like he was humoring me.

"Not talking, the other kind of rambling. You know, walking aimlessly."

"So... walking aimlessly with doorknobs will help their problem how?" he asked patiently.

"They can use them like worry stones and work off pent up energy at the same time," I said, in a tone that suggested it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Um, Eames?" There was that adorable puppy dog reluctance again. I nodded, eyebrows raised. "Why not just use stones?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. I just like saying doorknobs. It's a funny word." I smirked, enjoying the look on my partner's face.

"How much coffee have you had today, Eames?" I rolled my eyes. "And why are they so nervous anyway?"

"Well it started when Billy lost his hat," I said as if that explained everything. Bobby prompted me with an interested noise, a look of impatience on his face. "Stu went to help him look for it. While they were out, and Billy was wearing this red flowered shirt, don't ask me why, and a hummingbird came really close to them, thinking he was food."

"_That_ made them nervous? A hummingbird?" I huffed at him, clearly telling him that he should let me continue, darn it. "Well, it startled Billy so much that he tumbled over and dragged poor Stu down with him." I could tell my partner wanted to ask if that was what they were nervous about, but his attachment to various parts of his anatomy prevented him. "After they got up off the ground, which was no mean feat as they're both huge guys and they kept bumping up against each other, so they each fell down a few more times. Well, after they had gotten up and dusted themselves off, they had dead leaves and everything all over themselves, you know, well, then they decided to go to the Seven Eleven for some turkey jerky. Well, a few minutes after they got there, this guy came in with a ski mask and a baseball bat."

I could tell my partner was rapt by the way he was leaning in with his fingertips together under his nose. "Well, Stu got a lucky moment and whacked the guy upside the head with a jar of pickled beets." I knew I wasn't going to get away with that one without an interruption.

"Pickled beets?" Bobby raised an eyebrow the way I usually do when I'm skeptical of one of his stories.

"Yup," I said quickly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Well, naturally when the Cops showed up, he got a lot of attention, but he bowed out before the press got there. Can you imagine what _they _would have said? So they went to the Chinese place across the street to have some dinner, because they never really got around to that turkey jerky they wanted. Well, when they ordered, they meant to get Kung Pow chicken, but they couldn't read the menus. They were in a very Chinese saturated part of town, so the menus were only in Chinese. And since you weren't there, the just kind of had to guess and point. So what they ended up getting was some intimidating dish with what looked like a tentacle, which was weird because you expect that in a Japanese place, or as you were so kind to inform me, a Korean place, but not a Chinese place. They ate it. Really they kind of poked at it and paid their bill, and when they went out to the parking lot, they had gotten a ticket for parking across two spaces. I _hate _when people do that! Don't you?" I asked, finally taking a breath and giving my partner a chance to say something.

"Yes," he said decisively. "Am I allowed to say anything else before you start up again?"

"No. Well, Stu, he was driving, put the ticket in his wallet, but when he looked at it, he realized that it was short a twenty. First he thought Billy had done it as sort of a practical joke, but then he remembered that skeezy woman he had picked up in a bar for sleazeballs, he is a sleazeball, you know. Picking up that skeezy woman is proof enough. And he left her alone with his wallet when he'd gone to go brush his teeth because he'd just eaten pizza with onions. Onions and those little fish that I thought nobody really got on their pizzas, you know what I mean? Well, I always thought that anchovies on a pizza was just a punchline, but Stu really eats them that way. Yuck. So he figured she must have taken his twenty. Well, Billy was trying to comfort him while still keeping the male with male sanctions about comforting in tact, so you know, he couldn't really pat him on the arm or anything. More like punch him in the shoulder."

"Like you did with me?" Bobby pointed out.

"No!" I snapped. "I threw an apple at you. There's a difference. Well, after Stu was feeling a little better, they headed back to Billy's place to watch some classic slasher movies. How a slasher movie can be a classic is beyond me, but they swore up and down that these movies were. But when they got there, they found that Billy's cat had torn the place apart looking for a pen, that's her favorite toy. When she couldn't find that, she played with Billy's flashdrive, and got drool in the wiring and Billy was really-"

I finally broke him. "**Eames!**" he yelled. "Is there a _point_ to this? When did something make them nervous?"

I smirked in triumph. "Oh, it was the hummingbird that made them nervous. I made the rest of it up."

Bobby tilted back in his chair and let out the growl of a seriously annoyed man. "Eames, for the second time this week, you are _evil_."

What he didn't know was that I was getting even with him because I knew _exactly _what he'd been thinking about all during my last story.

Well, it's a good thing he didn't know why I made up that part about the red gorilla.

**xXx**

_Nobody _gets that innuendo, do they? One of my reviewers made a comment about her motive in telling him about the red gorilla...

A.N.: Anyone who knows the origins of Billy's and Stu's names needs (like I do) to get a life.


	14. Bobby's Revenge

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I was going to steal the deed to CI, but then I got confused and stole the disclaimer (the one where I say I don't own it) instead. So there is no disclaimer because I stole it.

A.N.: Thanks for all the reviews, guys! And thanks to the wonderful Kyasurin-chan for the delightfully ridiculous sentence!

**Ridiculous Story Number 14: Bobby's Revenge**

**xXx**

"So I grabbed the toilet paper and walked over to the Candy Wrapper," I said out of nowhere, pretending it made sense.

"Bobby, that makes no sense."

_Darn. Nothing gets by her. _"Why would you need toilet paper at a candy shop?"

"Well, it's a long story."

Eames rolled her eyes. "There's a lot of those, lately." She heaved an overdone sigh of defeat. "Okay, out with it."

"Well I was at the Candy Wrapper getting some chocolates for..." I looked up at her from my desk, wondering what reaction I would get if I mentioned Joy. She raised her eyebrow at me and I saw an expression cross her face that could have been either amusement or annoyance, I wasn't sure. "I was going to get you some of their version of Skittles while I was there," I said in a somewhat defensive tone. "They're way better than the store bought stuff."

"So dish," Eames challenged.

"I am, Eames. Well, while I was the-"

She sighed again. "Not the _story_. Dish the Skittles. I want 'em." She held out her hand and snapped her fingers at me.

"I didn't get them."

She scowled, then grumbled, "I bet you remembered the chocolates."

"Eames, let me explain! I didn't forget the Skittles or the chocolates. Something came up and I couldn't get any of it. That's why I'm telling you about the toilet paper. If you'd let me tell you. You're the one who just had to know the whole story, but-"

"Oh, yeah, I really dragged it out of you, Mr. Let's Drop a Stupid Sentence Out of Nowhere So I Can Talk Alex's Ear Off."

"Anyway," I continued loudly, drowning her out. "I went to the place to pick up the chocolates and Skittles, but when I got there, Jack, the guy that runs it, was having some trouble with his speakers. So-"

"So naturally you went to get the toilet paper," she filled in.

"Eames," I intoned in my best "I'm really annoyed but I'm going to be patient with you" voice. She shrugged as if to tell me, "Okay, fine. Pretend I'm not here and tell your stupid story." "Well, I was trying to help him isolate the reverse power couplings," I continued in a knowledgeable voice, hoping she didn't recognize the phrase from_ The Empire Strikes Back_. She looked at me skeptically, but didn't interrupt. "That's when he tripped and fell over his CD case."

"Toilet paper," Eames reminded me, apparently hoping to break us out of our habit of telling meandering stories. Well, at least mine was _true _(mostly).

"I'm getting to it," I said, in a voice as near a whine as I dared go. "So when he tripped, he crashed right down on top of his Celine Dion album, breaking it." Eames stifled a laugh at this, no doubt having found something to make fun of Jack for next time she saw him. "Well, he really loved that album - What, Eames, she's a good singer!" Eames made a "don't let me interrupt you" gesture through laughter and rested her chin in her hands to listen. "So he immediately went online to download all the songs. I looked resolutely the other way so I wouldn't have to arrest him, but when he was still getting track ten, somebody came into the store. Well, he was the only guy there, so it was either go up front and sell somebody candy or aid and abed a criminal, so I went up front to help the customer. He was a really short guy with a long moustache kind of like Poirot, and he had this laugh that was a little bit like a baby calf." Eames gave me the most impatient look I have ever seen, and I knew I had better cut to the chase. "Well, the guy wanted jelly bean recipes. You know those ten million flavored jelly beans, and how you can combine them to make fruit salad and banana splits and things? Well, that was all he wanted, a recipe book for those. So I was trying to explain to him that there really isn't one, but then Jack made this kind of 'Eeyahck!' noise in the back room, so I went to see what was the matter, and it turned out he had cut himself on his box knife, that he uses, to, you know, open boxes. Well, he didn't have any bandages and we ran out of toilet paper pretty fast, it was bleeding pretty bad, so I went to the Subway next door and got a roll from there. I went back to the Candy Wrapper and to help him nurse his wound." Eames looked concerned, so I hastened to add, "He didn't have to get stitches or anything. His ego was hurt worse than anything. But that wasn't really the point. While I was still at the Subway, Jack had done something, really... well,

"He tried to cauterize his wound with a Zippo. I got there just in time to see the back room go up in flames."

"You burned down the candy store?"

That made me sit up in my chair. "Hey! Are you not listening, Eames? Jack burned down the Candy Wrapper, not me!"

She shrugged. "I was just trying to give you credit for something incredible. Thought you'd appreciate the notoriety."

I shrugged. "Well, it is incredible. As in 'not credible.' Store's fine. Everything else is true," I said quickly, seeing a frightening look on her face. "The whole thing except for the fire."

"Bobby, what was the point of telling me that story?" she wondered.

I grinned. "Revenge."

"For what?" Eames asked innocently, knowing perfectly well what.

"If you don't know," I retorted. "I'm not gonna tell you."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, what was your revenge? Boring me?"

I smiled and very visibly popped a candy into my mouth.

"What was that?" she asked in an accusatory tone that told me she knew _exactly _what it was.

I raised the paper bag into her line of sight and tipped it toward her just enough to reveal the colorful bits of fruity goodness inside. "You know what it is." I ate another one. "Mmmm. Definitely better than the name brand."

"Bobby, you bought those for _me!_" Eames huffed.

"No I didn't," I informed her blissfully. "I bought them to eat in front of you for..." I tossed another tasty morsel into the air and caught it with my mouth. "Revenge."

"Did you even need to get chocolates for whoshername, or did you make that up as an excuse to go to the candy store and torture me?"

"Oh, I did get some chocolates for Joy. Not that it mattered, she dumped me two nights ago."

I could feel sympathy rays coming at me across the desk, but all Eames said was, "Good!"

But it's a good thing she didn't know why Joy dumped me.

**xXx**

Okay, guys, why'd she dump him?


	15. Charity Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: No ownership was infringed. The only character I own is Monica, whom all 'shippers will be happy to learn, has been written a long, slow, painful death, the evil Amazon!

**Chapter 15: Charity Can be Hazardous to Your Health**

**xXx**

The philanthropist looked at the pitcher. He didn't seem too interested, so he moved on to the impressionist painting next to it. The bidding would start in an hour, and the natives were getting restless. I knew Bobby hated charity auctions. Not that he wasn't fully behind the sentiment, but he would rather make a donation and skip the night out -especially tonight.

Mr. Smooth didn't have a date. We were both going stag, as a matter of fact, so we spent the majority of the night hanging around each other to avoid having to mingle with the philanthropic well-to-do of the city, not to mention to avoid having to look like two middle-aged losers who couldn't get dates.

But I had been in a good mood all day. It might have had something to do with the bag of Candy Wrapper's Skittles I had found on my desk with the note "Friends?" I had thrown one of them at him by way of confirmation. And I was feeling pretty good in my nice new dress, too. My nice new dress that had cost me enough to secure a spot on the space shuttle.

Stupid Bobby got to wear the same thing he wears every day to work. Men are so lucky that way.

"Did I ever tell you what happened at the last charity auction I had to go to?" my partner wondered.

"Do I want to know?" I asked, thinking of our recent forays into the land of storytelling.

"Probably not. Well, I was with my date, Monica, and she was wearing this really pleasant perfume. At least, it would have been pleasant had I not been allergic to it."

I raised an eyebrow, not really wanting to hear about Bobby's latest conquest.

"So the whole night, I was doing my best not to sneeze, because I figured it would be rude to point out that her scent was offending my immune system. I also didn't want her to think I was sick, so I was really trying to hold it in."

"Speaking of holding things in..." I hinted.

He ignored me. "So while I was doing my best not to sneeze over our entrees, Monica was telling me some story about her cousin and a runaway goat. Naturally I wasn't able to pay a lot of attention, but I at least tried to look like I was. And that's when I accidentally put my elbow in the butter tray. I know my elbows shouldn't have been on the table, but I'm not always so good about that." He either missed or ignored my sigh of annoyance. "And it helps when you're pretending to pay attention to someone."

"Oh, well that explains why I always see you sitting like that."

"I pay attention to you, Eames," Bobby insisted.

"So why-"

"But anyway," he said, ignoring me. "I was very embarrassed, needless to say, but fortunately Monica didn't seem to notice, so I was trying to wipe the butter off my shirt without anyone seeing it."

At this point I was doing my level best not to laugh at my poor partner. If only I had known how much worse it was going to get.

"I sort of managed to pull it off, but just when it was starting to come off okay, I dropped my napkin on the floor. So I excused myself and went under the table to pick it up."

"You do realize the bidding is going to start in an hour?" I reminded him.

Bobby didn't bat an eyelash. "And while I was under there, I noticed Mr. Keena's shoes."

"_The _Mr. Keena?" I asked, referring to the dress shoe mogul.

"The very same. And I swear he was wearing bowling shoes! Ugly ones, too."

"Can't be as ugly as yours were," I happily reminded him.

"True, but they were ugly. Purple and green. Well, I was so startled that I knocked my head on the underside of the table." I believe at this point I grumbled something about that incident explaining a few things, but naturally my partner ignored me. "Well, I didn't want to say anything, of course, so now I was trying not to sneeze, _and _not to laugh. But that's when the dessert came. It was mango cream pudding, and I accidentally got some on Monica's dress. She's dumped me since then. Um, you'll see why."

"She should've just done what I always do when you do something like that."

"Throw something at me?" 

I grinned. "But by all means continue with the imbecilic story you were telling." I wouldn't admit it in this geologic era, but I was really enjoying his sordid tale.

"So Monica wasn't too happy, and I was still thinking about Keena's abhorrent shoes, and trying not to sneeze, all on top of trying to be witty and not make a bad impression on Monica."

That one was just too good to let go. "Speaking of making bad impressions on people..." I butted in, loving every minute of it.

Bobby just smiled his endearing little boy smile. "So I tried to flag a waiter down to get some soda water, but when we finally got a waitress's attention, we unfortunately got a very _attractive _waitress. I was just trying to be nice, but Monica took it as flirting and got even madder at me than she already was, which was pretty difficult, I imagine."

I looked at Bobby's face to judge the amount of teasing he could take; decided a little friendly poking was just the thing. "No wonder you're here alone."

My partner shook his head and smiled again. "Something like that. Well, as if all that wasn't bad enough, the poor waitress slammed right into another waiter and his plates of veal Parmesan went flying everywhere. Fortunately, I was out of the line of fire, but poor Monica got covered in it."

I was secretly a little glad of that. Monica sounded like a jerk. Being jealous just because he was being nice to another woman. He was _always _nice, my Bobby. She had no reason to be jealous.

"Well, by then she was furious, and she took it all out on me. She threw her lipstick at me."

"You have that affect on women, don't you?"

Again, he ignored me. "It wouldn't have been a problem except that the lid fell off and it hit me right in the eye with the actual tip of her lipstick. To be fair, I think Monica felt a little bad about that, she had only intended to give me a flesh wound. So I got up to go to the bathroom to wash the lipstick out of my eye, but I slipped on the veal and fell flat on my... um, back." I bit back a laugh at his reluctance to discuss certain parts of his anatomy. "Well, I was afraid I had broken my tailbone, and fortunately, there was a patron at the next table who was a medic and was able to check, happily without a close examination. Unfortunately, she too was very attractive, and she was poking around my... um..." I didn't even try to hold in my laughter at that point. "Well, now I was trying to reassure Monica that she was the lady of the night and I only had eyes for her. I tried to kiss her, but when I got up that close, I finally did sneeze.

"Right in her face." I was clutching my sides, trying not to make a spectacle of myself by rolling around on the floor. She smacked me, and that's when I fell on the floor and saw Mr. Keena's shoes again. This time they were covered in veal Parmesan, and I couldn't help it."

"You laughed at the millionaire, didn't you?"

He smiled shyly. "Naturally, Monica, whom I was beginning to think was just a tad bit insecure, thought I was laughing at _her_, and that's when she went to kick my shin.

"She missed," he informed me, grimacing. I winced. I probably would have laughed had it been anyone but Bobby, but our telepathy had progressed to the point where I couldn't find it funny at all. I patted his arm sympathetically.

She didn't deserve him.

But it wasn't a bad evening all around. Bobby got himself a nice pair of antique cufflinks, and I took home a pretty painting for the living room.

But it's a good thing he didn't know what I really wanted to take home with me.

**xXx**

There are a lot of ways to interpret that last line. But come on, we all know. ;)


	16. Half Baked

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I don't own CI, but maybe if I give Dick Wolf enough eggnog... Of course, if I gave him too much eggnog he might start doing the conga and keeping rhythm by drumming on a kumquat. Another sinister plot gone afoul. Speaking of plot... look elsewhere.

**Chapter : Half Baked**

**xXx**

I can't even count how many times I've looked and looked and looked for my muffin tin.

Okay, so I can.

On one hand.

After having sustained injuries to said hand resulting in the removal of, say, four digits.

Counting today. But that's why I had to look for it. How should I remember where I put it sometime in the Cretaceous when I last made cupcakes?

But I was making cupcakes tonight. It was Christmastime and I was determined to join in all the 'tis the season, be jolly, deck the halls, joy to the world festivities dammit!

Now where did I put that thing?

Okay, so I've only made cupcakes twice in my life. If you count the time I was six and I made about five blobs on the stove in the general shape of cupcakes basically if you don't count the tentacles coming off each one. So I don't make cupcakes. Sue me.

I tried, I really did, but I really don't know how it's possible to burn some and leave some squishy on the inside. I think only I could do that.

Also, there were lumps of dry batter in each one. I tried to be brave and taste one. I have enough courage for gun wielding psychos, perps with no fear and no scruples, and taking on the brass at their worst, but I do have my limits.

Then came the frosting. Even lumpier than the batter, I convinced myself that the little clumps of sugar here and there were an extra treat. After adding enough food coloring to turn me into one of the Supremes, I attempted to coat each cupcake with the proper amount to be generous, but not so much that I would run out. The first ten had about an inch thick layer of the toxic stuff, while the last ten had one scraping about the thickness of parchment paper, not that I would know jack about any fancy schmacy paper used for baking wedding cakes or whatever it's used for.

I just don't do cupcakes.

So imagine everybody's surprise when I showed up to work with a whole mess a' the freakin' things in a big Tupperware container I bought ten years ago to make my friend Susan just shut up already about what a great deal it was.

"You baked," my partner said, a look of incredulity plastered on his face.

"Don't. Sound. So. Surprised," I seethed. "I love this bloodsucking holiday as much as the next guy."

Bobby didn't respond (possibly for fear of his life). Poor buffoon. I shouldn't take it out on him. My shoulders slumped as I put the godawful things down on the break room counter. "Sorry, Bobby. I'm a little on edge."

He thrust a peace offering toward me in the form of a mug of much needed coffee, presumably with enough sugar to choke an Oompalooma. Bobby was the only person in the world who could actually put _too much _sugar in my coffee: He tried too hard, I think, but his effort and care just made the coffee taste all the better. I smiled for the first time that day as I thanked him and took a much needed sip.

"They look great," he lied, lifting the lid. They looked as if it had been puked on by a komodo dragon who had taken Pepto after eating too many candy canes.

I eyed Bobby skeptically, wondering if he were dreading a visit to his rarely used doghouse. "Are you buttering me up because you did something terrible that you're afraid to tell me about?"

"I would never dream of buttering my partner," he insisted a little too quickly. "I just think they don't look too bad."

Poor Bobby knew instantly that he had said something potentially life-threatening. "Sorry, that sounded terrible. It's just that I know how insecure you are about your cooking and you think they look hideous. I don't. They look... festive."

Feeling especially brave and profoundly loyal, he dove enthusiastically into one that looked like as if it should be touched only with a hazmat suit. "Yummy," he informed me. I didn't believe him, a sentiment which I communicated via raised eyebrow. But it was a very much appreciated lie. I can always count on Bobby for one of those.

"So what else do you have planned for Christmas?" he asked around the cupcake.

"I'm going to visit Nathan and my parents, then I'm curling up with leftover Halloween movies so I don't have to put up with the saccharine stuff they put on TV this time of year."

He laughed a little, but didn't press the subject.

So it's a good thing he didn't ask what I planned to do for his birthday.

**xXx**

So what do _you _think she was planning for his birthday? But keep your suggestions K rated... which will likely eliminate 99.9 of answers. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, you little gutter brains! Aw heck, tell me all of them, even the MA rated ones.


	17. But Wait There's More!

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories **

**By LMR**

**Chapter 17: But wait... There's More**

**xXx**

The measuring cup sputtered and roared to life. And promptly died.

"I dunno, Bobby. I'm not so sure about this."

"No, no. It'll work," he assured me. "I just need to work out a few kinks."

"Yeah, in your _brain_. This is a ridiculous idea." I eyed the contraption warily. "What's wrong with a good old fashioned measuring cup? They've always worked fine for me."

Bobby shot me a look that plainly said he didn't believe I had ever used a measuring cup in my life. Which really isn't true. If you count that time I was five and made flour and water pancakes for Mother's Day.

I'd measured the flour and water very carefully. Right before I poured the mixture on the open oven door.

"Okay, okay, don't rub it in that my culinary skills exist only on the planet Zoog in the nineteenth dimension," I conceded. "But if somebody did use a measuring cup on a regular basis, they're not going to give it up for this." I gestured to the "Automatic Measure Machine" he'd invented. I'd also told him he should come up with a better name. As usual, he never listened to me.

"Eeeeee-mmmms," Bobby said in his whiniest voice (He knows I hate that voice), "It's a great invention. It just needs a little work."

"Why, Bobby? Why?" I wondered plaintively.

"Because it shakes all over and dumps what's left of the measured substance an inch away from the bowl, and when you try to turn it off it smokes a little and you already saw how it kind of takes a while to start up. I may need to include jumper cables in the complete package: It's going to have a travel case and everything, you know. Also, the plug I ordered is actually a European plug and when you try to use a converter it starts doing this thing where it-"

"No, I meant _why?_ Why did you even think of this?"

Bobby scowled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Eames." I rolled my eyes. "If you must know, I got the idea from watching infomercials."

"The fact that you actually watch infomercials is enough to make me question your mental stability. The fact that you made this thing is enough to make me question _my _mental stability for having you as a friend."

Ignoring me, he continued with his shtick. "I was watching my friend Dave's mom in the kitchen, and she was trying to use a measuring cup. First, she topped it too full and the flour went all over the floor and kitchen. The cat came to see what the commotion was about and made little footprints all over the counter and table, which would have been really convenient if it were a crime scene, but not so great for a cooking surface. Then she had to hunt down Zoobles and wash off her paws to make sure she wouldn't swallow any flour because she's just sure that flour will give a cat catonaliosis or caulifloriticus, or calaforitis or something like that that will make Zoo break out into hives that won't go away until we rub them down with honey and bubble gum, which of course means we'd have to shave her and then she'd look like that cat that the mad scientist had in that movie about cryogenically frozen spies with bad teeth. After she dealt with Zoobles, she had to come back and remeasure the flour, then she got too little so when she mixed it in with the eggs and the butter, which she hadn't softened properly, see she melted it instead, so it just wasn't clumping properly. Eventually I intend to add a butter warming addition, but that will have to wait. I'm still working out the heat motor, because the prototype I have now, frizzes all up and sets the butter on fire. For that matter, it sets the whole machine on fire. But that's just one of those little things I'm working on. Anyway, she dropped the measuring cup and not only broke it, but spilled milk everywhere, and naturally Zoobles couldn't miss out on _that _action, but his mom had to take her away because of the broken glass. By then she was letting loose with a bunch of four-letter words that I didn't think she even knew. Words that, incidentally, Dave always said he learned from me when he got in trouble." I grinned at him to communicate that it served him right.

"That's when I decided Auto Measure would be a good idea."

I raised an eyebrow. "Bobby, that is the stupidest story I have ever heard," I informed him.

"Well then I haven't told you what happened when I went to Haw-"

"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." He put his hands up in a defensive gesture, clearly saying that he intended to cause me no harm in the form of a migraine like one might get from eating ice cream too fast. After sobbing all day. With a fever of one-hundred three. After swimming right after eating.

And being hit over the head with a sledgehammer.

Well, maybe the whole thing wasn't so bad. I sure got a kick out of Bobby's story.

But at least he didn't know what I thought of his previousinvention.

**xXx**

I told you I'd write more! Eventually... Hopefully in this decade.


	18. And to Top it Off

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I roted you a disclaymer, but I eated it.

**Chapter 18: And to Top it Off...**

**xXx**

"Why do we never have any new hats like the Full Moon anymore?" Bobby wondered.

"Maybe because those hats were hideous. Full Moon made the ugliest hats I've ever seen. I can't believe you actually like them."

He gave me a wounded look. "Are you telling me that my hat that's a replica of the tower of London was _ugly?"_

"I didn't say it was ugly," I corrected, causing my partner to look momentarily vindicated. "I said hideous."

"That thing was amazing!" he insisted. "Accurate too! What other company would make hats with a working baby piano on the top? That was classic! It's just to bad I couldn't afford that one. I even thought about buying it for you, actually," he admitted.

_Aww. What a sweetie. Dummy, but sweet dummy._

"Bobby, that's really thoughtful, but I'm musically challenged," I pointed out. "I don't think I could play the _triangle_. What would I want with a baby piano?"

"Well," he responded defensively. "It's not the piano that's important." He straightened himself up, trying to look impressive. "It's the principle of the thing."

I rolled my eyes. "What I want to know is who came up with the Full Moon line of hats anyway. And why?"

Bobby jumped at the opportunity. "I know!" he said so eagerly I expected him to throw his hand in the air like Hermione Granger.

"Do I want to know?" I wondered, knowing the answer.

"Nope. Jim, that's the guy that started it- not Deakins."

"Of course not. Deakins has more than one brain cell," I pointed out.

Bobby ignored the jab. "Well he was watching this TV show about centerpieces."

Now, Bobby has this strange habit of stopping a story in a ludicrous place. I think he does it to add drama, but somehow he just can't pull it off at the right moment, so he comes off sounding like a discman landing after being shot out of a cannon off the top of a skyscraper. "And?" I prompted him impatiently.

"Ah-_and_," he said in an exasperated voice that indicated the answer was obvious. "He noticed that they were doing miniatures of all kinds of different things, and he thought it was cool. He loves miniatures."

"Dolls," I summarized.

Bobby ignored me. "Then, on the same show, he saw this woman with a ridiculous hat and thought it would be a great combination!"

"So the short answer is that he's as confused about 'good ideas' as you are. Remember the time you tried to invent the automatic kielbasa slicer with onion attachment?"

"Okay, okay, rub it in. So it exploded and splattered the new backsplash with sausage grease, big deal." I rolled my eyes yet again. My ocular musculature was getting a real workout. "Anyway, Jim's idea really took off, so I don't know what you're talking about saying it's a stupid idea."

"Didn't the business just close down, and that's why you're complaining that you can't get any more?"

"Well, yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "But that was a fluke. What happened was Jim can't sculpt the hat toppers any more. He was involved in a freak accident with a jigsaw."

My hand flew to my mouth. "Oh no! I had no idea!" I was starting to feel bad for having put down Jim's creations.

"Well, it's not exactly what it sounds like, really. See, he was cutting a piece of foam with the saw when the foam got stuck."

"And he forced it and it got his hand?"

"Let me finish, Eames," he mock-whined. I apologized and let him go on with the story. "Well, it got stuck, so he decided it would be a good idea to take out the foam and give it some lubrication, so he got out the Vaseline. Did you know that Vaseline is actually plant matter from millions of years ago that's been compressed over time so it's actually dinosaur goo-"

"Bobby," I said as a reminder.

"Oh yeah, well, he smeared it all over the foam and the blade, but when he did, he rubbed his eye, which made it burn and made him blind in that he had to keep his eyes closed from the pain."

"So he lost his eyesight and that's why he can't make hats anymore?"

"_Eames,_" he said in a threatening tone. I apologized again and allowed him to continue with his idiocy, er, story. "Well, when he went temporarily blind, he stumbled-"

My hand flew to my mouth again. "He tripped into the blade?"

He gave me a look that could have killed a cockroach in a kevlar hazmat suit, and my hands flew up in a defensive gesture, conveying the message, _okay, okay!_

"While he was blinded he knocked the button for the garage door to open. Well, it's one of those garage doors that swings out. Well, his kid had left his play car out right in front of the garage, so naturally the door pushed it out into the driveway. It hit the pink flamingo in Jim's yard. By then Jim could see a little more and he went out to put the flamingo back up. While he was there, the paper guy through the newspaper right on top of Jim's head."

"Did he get permanent brain damage?" I wondered, worried and skeptical in equal measures.

Bobby shrugged. "No. But it gave him a nasty bump that won't go away and now he can't do a proper fitting for his hats anymore."

I put my hands on my hips and stared him down. Why couldn't you have just told me that last part?"

He had the decency to look a little ashamed at his enthusiasm.

Well, it's a good thing he didn't know what hat I had bought from Full Moon.

**xXx**

Please deposit reviews below for optimum reading pleasure. More "Fluff" coming soon, complete with a kissing scene! (Yay! kissing scene!)


	19. Sweet Tooth

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: Web definition of disclaimer:

1. (law) a voluntary repudiation of a person's legal claim to something disavowal: denial of any connection with or knowledge of

2. A disclaimer is generally any statement intended to specify or delimit the scope of rights and obligations that may be exercised and enforced by parties in a legally-recognized relationship. ...

3. Disclaimer is the first album released by Post Grunge band Seether released in 2002. The album was Re-released in 2004 as Disclaimer II with 8 extra tracks.

4. The advice contained in this Website is not intended as a substitute for consulting with a professional advisor, such as your physician, attorney or accountant. ...

5. You actually read this entire disclaimer? Schmuck.

**Chapter 19: Sweet-tooth**

**xXx**

"And if it would make you feel more comfortable, you're certainly welcome to invite the opthomologist," Eames offered.

"Why would I want to invite the opthomologist? I can hardly pronounce her!" She rolled her eyes so far up into her head she must have caught a glimpse of her frontal lobe. Okay, so she had to have known I'd only said it to get precisely that reaction. It was worth making myself sound like an imbecile. She's so... well, cute when she's exasperated.

"Well I know you have a thing for her, I can tell." She looked at me smugly, as if she knew something I didn't. Strangely enough, I found myself a little disappointed by her reaction. Huh.

"Do not," I insisted, knowing I sounded like a third grader. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, she hates me."

"Oh, does not," Eames told me in an encouraging tone.

"No, no, really. See, I've seen her since the last time we were all together. That's when she started hating me. I think it had something to do with my telling her that I used to work as a pizza delivery boy."

Her jaw dropped. "She hates you for that? If she's that much of a snob, she's not good enough for you."

I appreciated the sentiment, but she hadn't heard the whole sordid tale. Poor Eames. Her innocent ears really didn't need to hear this. _Oh, well, tough noogies for her. _"No, it was one particular delivery that made her hate me."

"Do tell," she offered, a note of dread in her voice.

"Well, it started on Halloween. We were required to wear costumes. You know, to be fun for the customers." She nodded, prodding me to continue. "Well, my costume was kind of..." I hesitated, wishing the topic had never come up. "Well, truth be told, I was a zombie with a tooth ache."

"Huh?" Eames raised an eyebrow, no doubt wondering what kind of twisted, depraved, and seriously weirded out mind would conceive the concept of a zombie with a tooth ache.

Face it, only somebody really messed up could come up with that.

"You know, I was done up in all the zombie make-up, but then I also had some bandages and an ice pack over my jaw."

"But why, Bobby? Why not just be a zombie and leave it at that?" my partner pleaded.

I shrugged, not really remembering what had possessed me. Possibly booze. "I wanted to be different. Anyway, I went about my deliveries, got some laughs for my costume and was having a pretty good night.

"Until I got to the Omega Beta Zeta house. That sealed my fate," I concluded dramatically.

Eames was not impressed. "So are you going to tell me what happened or do we play twenty questions?"

"Well..." I honestly didn't want to tell her what happened. "The short version is that by the end of the night, I was covered with silly string, feathers and guacamole. That's all."

"That's all? You're not getting off that easy, Bobby. Tell me what happened."

"Well, there was a party going on, of course, and they were all so drunk that they just thought I was their buddy and I needed to come in and party with them. As it happened, it was my last delivery of the night, so I decided I could hang around a while. Big mistake. So this big guy Eddie figured I should enter the costume contest.

"I was up against a rabid goat and the Supreme Mega-Leader Head Honcho Guy of the planet Wronkle. That second one was pretty impressive, actually. He looked like the real deal. Anyway, while I was waiting to be judged by the mob, this guy walked by with a big tray of guacamole and chips."

"And he dumped it on you," Eames filled in.

"Eames, let me tell the story. So the guy was walking by and I decided I wanted some chips, but I was having a hard time opening my mouth because of the toothache stuff. See, I had actually put cotton in my cheek."

Eames didn't need to say a word. She gave me a look that clearly stated that she thought I was the most under-evolved creature that had ever crawled out from under a rock. I love it when she looks at me that way.

"Okay," I said a touch defensively. "So that was a bit over the top. I'm a method actor, what can I say? So I was trying to take the cotton out of my mouth and I dropped them into the guacamole and it splattered all over my shirt."

"Okay, silly string and feathers - short short version," Eames insisted impatiently.

"Well, the Wronkle guy won the contest and I decided to nurse my wounded pride by going upstairs and swinging a llama.

"That was the frat slang for having a beer," I explained before she could ask. "But on my way upstairs I ran into this guy with silly string."

"He got you, huh?" Eames guessed, looking a little too happy about it. Wrong, as usual.

"Let me tell the story!" She put her hands up in a defensive gesture.

"Well, we were going to get into a silly string fight, but he didn't want to leave me defenseless, so he gave me a can, too. But before we could start the fight, I got distracted by a flying monkey and I dropped the can into a jack-o-lantern and it exploded on me.

"So by that time, I was feeling pretty down and that's when I got to the top floor of the house. And that's when I ran into the one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater. And I really do mean 'ran into.' We smashed right into each other, and his feathers were loose and they stuck to the silly string and guacamole.

"So I left, not feeling very good at all, went home and took a long, hot bath." For some reason, Eames's eyes looked a little glazed over at that point. Huh. "Bad night all around, really," I finished.

"Okay," she started. "That was a horrendous story, but I don't see any reason the opthamologist wouldn't like you because of any of that."

I looked at her incredulously. "Oh. You wanted to hear about _that _delivery?"

Eames made a noise somewhere between an aardvark with a hairball and fax machine with a case of the hiccups.

Well, it's a good thing she didn't know what I dressed up as the next Halloween.

**xXx**

Okay ladies, leave a review please, assuming you're not still a little googie in the brain from picturing Bobby taking a long, hot bath.


	20. No Birds Were Harmed in the Telling of T

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: And thus it was that LMR, tho she did not possess the birthright of Dick Wolf who did beget Bobby and Alex, verily she did beget Squeaky, who beget red gorillas and yea, also did beget stuffed iguanas. He did also beget a medical examiner wearing a kayak and verily she did ponder what the hell "beget" means.

**Chapter 20: No Birds Were Harmed in the Telling of This Story**

**xXx**

"None of the flamingos are skydiving yet." Eames said as if it were surprising, a frown of concentration on her face.

Drawing upon all the eloquence I possess, I responded to her statement. "Um," I said. Finally collecting my wits, I asked a more coherent question. "What are you talking about? Flamingos skydiving?"

She laughed. "Not real flamingos, Bobby. But thanks for the imagery. A skydiving team called the flamingos. They do shapes in the air, you know, loops and stuff. Concentric circles. Like synchronized swimming, kind of, only in the air. And they probably don't have to grin like idiots, either."

"Okay, then. That's explained. What I don't understand now is why you care if the flamingos are skydiving or not."

She shrugged. "My friend Julie's on the team. She's getting frustrated that they can't do their diving yet."

I wasn't sure I should ask. I sense no good would come of it. I don't know what possessed me...

"Why can't they dive yet?"

"It's a complicated story. I don't think you really want to hear it, Bobby." I could tell by the tone of her voice that she wished it hadn't come up.

"Try me." _Something tells me I'm going to regret this._

As if reading my mind, Eames sighed. She had the expression on her face of a woman who really who really doesn't want to have the conversation she was about to start. "Fine. I give. Uncle. I'll tell you the stupid story.

"It started when Danny broke his leg. It's not important how that happened," she said the last bit in one hurried breath.

"If it weren't important," I pointed out, "You wouldn't be so anxious about telling me."

Eames rolled her eyes and I could tell I was right on the mark by the way her head tilted just a little to the left and her mouth opened a fraction of an inch. "Fine.

"Danny broke his leg trying to do the stroll with a walrus. Happy?"

"Amused," I admitted. "But not satisfied. How did Danny happen to be dancing with a pinniped?"

"A whosits?"

"Pinniped. That's the family walruses belong to," I said impressively.

"How on earth do you always know stuff that completely useless, Bobby?" she asked me, exasperated.

Actually, it was a crossword puzzle clue, but I figured it would be more fun to just let her think I was overeducated. Okay, so technically I _am _overeducated, and she already knows that, but sometimes it's fun to remind her.

Yeah, I know. I'm mean.

"You're the one telling telling me that a skydiving flamingo was dancing with a walrus and you're asking me how I know a certain word? Something about that is very wrong."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. He was at one of those aquarium shows, and he was picked out of the audience to stand by the walrus for a picture. He was supposed to just stand there, but he thought he'd be cute and try dancing with it."

"And?" I prompted eagerly.

"What 'and?' _You _try dancing with a walrus and see what happens. Sumo didn't think it was so cute. Point is, Danny broke his leg, so the team couldn't do their skydiving on schedule. End of story."

She started to walk away and I sort of slided in front of her, determined not to let her get away before I had discovered the whole shebang, sordid as it may be. "No, no, no. You don't get off that easy. There's no way a skydiving team would quit jumping out of planes altogether just because one of them broke a leg. There's no reason the rest couldn't go. Why couldn't they go, Eames?"

"I'm not bad enough to tell the rest of this story. Consult my evil twin. You'll find her lurking in the third stall of the men's room under the dromedary exhibit of Larry's Rent-a-Critter. They loan stuff out for weddings, you know. Usually albino peacocks, but they got a corner on the kissing llama market an-"

"_Eames_," I grumbled in a warning tone. "Aside from the fact that learning that an even more evil version of you is out there somewhere is the most terrifying thing I've ever heard, tied with a gunshot." She attempted to glower and managed only a barely repressed smile. "This story is really starting to rank in there with the top ten horrible noises. Could you please end it as soon as possible?" I paused and decided to irk her further. Hey, it's fun. Don't judge me. You'd do it to, trust me. "Are you sure the one hiding out with the llamas isn't the good twin?"

Eames huffed. "Well, Danny's the one they call the ringleader, you know, the guy who directs their shapes, the rings, so that's what they call him the-"

"Finishing story please," I requested, speaking very quietly as to make sure she wouldn't have another reason to smack me.

"Well, they're really only supposed to mimic his movements when they're in the air... but it kind of becomes a habit."

"And?"

She sighed again, knowing she'd been defeated. "They were walking down the street one day when his cast twisted and he fell on the ground in a rather unnatural position, and, well..."

I sort of wish I would have been standing in front of a mirror, because the look on my face must've been priceless; the expression that I made when I finally figured out what she meant. "Are you telling me that they all just imitated him and fell in synch and _all _of them broke their legs?"

She looked positively embarrassed to be telling me the story. "Um. Yeah," she said hesitantly, looking at the floor. "Kind of like lemmings I suppose."

"Lemmings don't reall-"

She gave me a look and I burst out laughing, wondering how the team members had explained their injuries to friends. Reluctantly, I imagine.

But it's a good thing she didn't know how I'd once broken _my _leg.

**xXx**

This is the part where good little boys and girls... who am I kidding - girls, review and guess how Bobby broke his leg. Then you read all the previous reviews to see whose mind is in the gutter. You know who you are ;)


	21. Big Trouble Part 2

**The Misadventures of Squeaky and Other Ridiculous Stories**

**By LMR**

Disclaimer: I don't own CI. I don't own Bobby or Alex. I don't own the line that inspired the story (whoever did come up with this line was probably killed by Kathryn a couple seasons ago). I don't own the concept of Big Trouble. I don't even own the computer I'm typing this on. The only thing about this I own is the following conversation, which is bupkis.

**Ridiculous Story Number Twenty-One: Big Trouble Part 2**

**xXx**

Dave Barry calls it Big Trouble, and yeah, I'm in it again. I think. At times, I am so confused by the female mind that I don't even understand that I'm not understanding. It started out innocent enough. I added a nice little "Doesn't it?" to the end of a statement of scientific fact about the way a certain substance works, thinking it would make my partner feel more appreciated (read, smug) if it seemed like I didn't know something. Okay, so I just didn't want to be caught knowing about a topic that was so… girlie. Either way, it was a nice gesture, or at least a harmless one.

And what did I get but a scowl and a surly, "Do I look like I would know?" _I did it again_, I inwardly sighed. _But how?_

Through the day, I tried to put it out of my head. But it just hovered around in the back of my mind. _You upset Eames. You upset Eames_. It was kind of like having "Barbie Girl" stuck in your head, only slightly less annoying and a little more guilt-making. Great. Now I have that sophomoric song stuck in my head. Well, it could be worse. It could be the "Macaran- _Oh, great._

So, as we went down the elevator, done for the night, I sealed my doom, and, in possibly the most imbecilic decision of my life, I brought it up again, hoping to redeem myself for whatever damage I may or may not have done.

"I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't know anything about Botox. You definitely don't use it, there's no way you could be using it," I blurted out, in what was, in retrospect, not the brightest utterance of my career as a male. Believe it or not, at the time, it seemed like the right thing to say.

Yeah, that's right. Laugh at my doghouse.

"Oh, gee. Thanks, Bobby. You made my week. Dare I ask why you feel the need to yell _that_ at me?"

"I didn't yell," I mumbled defensively, loathe to take this conversation further. "When I asked you if you knew about it, you didn't… You weren't…" I sighed and admitted defeat. "I think I insulted you. Sorry."

She frowned up at me, a look on her face that clearly said: "I don't understand what the hell you are saying and if I did, I would be severely annoyed at you." I can always tell that that's what she's thinking when she purses her lips as if she's eaten a lemon dipped in wasabi. I have to try hard not to laugh when she makes that expression. I am loathe to use the word "cute" to describe anything about Eames, but it's close.

"Wow, Bobby. I finally found something you suck at. Never apologize to me again. Just give me candy next time you mess up, because that apology was fixed in a realm of boneheadedness that I have never before encountered." I was relieved to notice she was smiling.

Looking back, I really hope, for the sake of my dignity, that I wasn't pouting. "I'm sorry," I said, incredulous. "I'm still apologizing for the first thing, by the way," I clarified. "I'll start apologizing for whatever I just now did as soon as I figure out what it was. I'm sorry, and I didn't mean to imply that you're shallow or vain enough to know anything about it."

Now she was giving me her "Bobby is saying something weird and I don't think I want to know" expression. She seems to get that one a lot. Huh.

"When did you imply that I'm shallow or vain? A minute ago you implied that I'm a _prune_, but shallow and vain are new ones."

_Now she thinks she's a dried plum? She can't blame me for that particular delusion_.

Okay, so at times I'm capable of digging myself into holes so deep they nearly reach the Earth's mantle, but I am at least smart enough to know when I have begun digging such a hole.

Usually.

Fortunately, this was one of those times. I frowned in contemplation. "Okay, let me try this again. At any time today did I say something that insulted or annoyed you? Before we got on the elevator, I mean?" I hastened to add.

She thought about this for a moment, and I could tell she was thoroughly amused. "Well, I wasn't really thrilled when you whined that my slice of pizza was bigger than yours."

"I didn't wh-"

"And it really annoyed me that you didn't give back that paper that I put on your desk, even though I specifically stated that I would need it later.

My jaw dropped. "First of all, Eames, it landed on your desk, not mine. Second, it landed there after you wadded it up and threw it at my head."

"To get even with you for whining about the pizza," she qualified, shrugging.

I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that the goal of this conversation was to figure out what I had done to insult Eames. Not to throttle her, which was looking more and more like a viable and somewhat rewarding eventuality. "Other than exercising my first amendment right to complain about my serving size, and the fact that you consider me inadequate for target practice, have I said anything today to offend you?"

"No!" she said, practically laughing. "All the sudden you start apologizing and after you say you're sorry for insults you never gave me, you called me old and shallow and vain."

"I did **NO**_**-**__" Deep breath. In. Out. _ "I didn't say that."

"We've established that you didn't insult me. I think. So exactly what is it you thought you said that you needed to give me that severely terrible suck-o-rama apology for?"

"I asked what you knew about Botox. And you asked if it looked like you would know. That answer is kind of an implied negative with a sarcastic overtone."

She raised an eyebrow at me in the way that I understood to mean "If Bobby knew how much amusement I get from his weirdness he would pout for a week."

"And you have no idea why I might find it ironic that you would think I would know about Botox?"

"Well, that's the shallow and vain part," I explained. "I never meant to imply that you were the kind of… frivolous woman who would care about something like that. I thought that you thought I was insulting your character. I thought. Isn't that what you were thinking?"

She was smirking at me, and the amused look on her face (as she was clearly inwardly mocking me) was so… _Eamesey_, that it was worth the entire ridiculous conversation: guilt, confusion, and all.

"What I was thinking is that I have _wrinkles_. Wrinkles, Bobby! The little lines that start growing on your face when you get to thirty-seven, which I am, which you are never going to tell anyone unless you want me to get fired for police brutality."

I chewed on that for a moment. (Hm, if I actually, literally chewed on that, what would it taste like? Never mind.) "No you don't have wrinkles."

Her jaw dropped and eyebrows raised, just enough to let me know that, at the moment, she thought I had the IQ of cat dander. "You don't," I reiterated. She heightened the jaw/eyebrow thing, as if this were a valid counter-argument.

So I did the only logical thing, the thing that creeps most people out to the point that they're willing to roll on their grandmother to get out of the interrogation room, but causes Eames to look at me as if I'm a dog weeing on her petunias: I leaned down really, really close and studied her face.

"You do!" I said, unable to keep the wonderment out of my voice. "Wow, _lots_ of them! I'm kidding," I pointed out before she could wield the awesome, terrible power that is a woman's knee. "Not that many." She scowled for a moment before deciding I was, in fact, kidding, then shrugged. "When did you get those? They weren't there before."

"They've been there for five years. You're looking at me with uh…" She hesitated here as if catching herself in a misstatement. "Friendship goggles. After a while you don't notice changes, especially flaws. Men do that all the time. Women are better about it. We see things more accurately," she concluded with entirely too much self-assuredness.

"Hey, Eames?" She raised an eyebrow. "What color is my hair?"

"Blac- Oh, shut up."

I grinned, pleased to see that her "uh, friendship goggles" were in good working order.

But it's a good thing she didn't know which of her features I always notice.

**xXx**

Innuendo? Who me? Never! Now, which part of the chicken do you want?


End file.
